


fargo f1

by mondaycore



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crime and Criminals, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Gen, Humor, Kidnapping, based on a movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 13:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21209543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondaycore/pseuds/mondaycore
Summary: “This is bad,” Charles says. “I’m in deep.”“How bad can it possibly be?” Max asks.Charles gives him a number well into the seven figures.“That is bad,” Max says. “You’re in deep.”





	fargo f1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [babypapaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babypapaya/gifts).

> this is somewhat based on _fargo_ (the movie), the rest is me trying to be the coen brothers and/or trying to be funny and failing very badly. if you haven’t seen it, _fargo_ is a delightful tale of greed, extortion, kidnapping, murder, two bumbling hitmen, a folksy detective, and my second-favorite american regional accent.
> 
> babypapaya — this one’s for you. i’m very sorry to have stolen the idea of haas gangsters, but let it be known that you did it first and you did it best. i’m very grateful for your enthusiasm and kind words always! this is beyond stupid, hastily written, and probably not up to normal standards, but i hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> the infamous woodchipper scene from the movie has made it in here, i.e. someone gets put through one, along with kidnapping, implied deaths, implied mild sexual harassment by someone under the influence, and gun violence (though all played for laughs). this is one of the first things i've written in years not titled off a song, look at that.

“This is bad,” Charles says. “I’m in deep.”

“How bad can it possibly be?” Max asks.

Charles gives him a number well into the seven figures. 

“That is bad,” Max says. “You’re in deep.”

\--

“This is _ your _ problem as much as it is _ my _ problem,” Charles says, cornering Mattia in the halls of Ferrari HQ — not an easy feat, considering Binotto towers half a head over him, which ruins the intimidating effect he’s going for, more than just a little. “If we go down, we’re going down together. I mean, you’d be fine, but look at me. I wouldn’t last a day in prison.”

“Wouldn’t even last the first night,” Sebastian says, giving him an appraising once-over and shaking his head sadly as he passes by. Charles gestures wordlessly at Binotto, _ you see? _

“Okay, stay calm, Charles, stay calm,” Mattia says. He wears a look of the inevitable on his face, the steely determination of a man who has spent years now outrunning his destiny and has decided, at long last, that it is time now to look fate in the eye and — well, maybe not exactly _ stand and fight _ . But at least like, grovel a little, then point and say _ look over there! _ and run off while fate is distracted. Strategy. _ Tactics. _ “I have a plan, but you’re not going to like it.”

“Whatever, just tell me,” Charles says. Any plan is better than no plan, he figures. At this point, beggars can’t be choosers.

Mattia tells him.

“Thanks,” Charles says. “I fucking hate it.”

\--

“Do you understand. What I’m asking you to do,” Charles says, loudly and slowly, as if speaking to children. 

“Yeah, we get it. We got it the first time you told us,” Kevin Magnussen says, at a normal talking speed and volume. “We’re not _ actually _Americans, you know. We speak normal English.”

Charles greatly regrets setting this meeting at such a high-end establishment. Kevin keeps beadily eyeing the gold-plated flatware, fingers no doubt itching, and Romain has, through the course of this ten-minutes-at-most conversation, ordered every single _ patisserie _ off the menu, knowing he’s not going to be the one paying for it. He should’ve just done what they do in the movies and found a shady back alley to have this chat, except he’s also too beautiful to be hanging around in back alleys without also suffering consequences.

“Repeat it back, so I know you understand.” 

“You want me and Romain to kidnap Valtteri Bottas, take him somewhere nice for a few days, and extort a ransom out of Lewis.”

“Yes, that’s it,” Charles says. The more he hears this plan out loud, the more he thinks it might actually work. “But do it. _ Quietly. _”

“Okay. Easy enough. We have a safe house upcountry we can use,” Kevin says. Grosjean nods in agreement, though it might as well have been in agreement with the taste of the profiterole he’d just bitten into. “And what’s the split?”

“Fifty-fifty on the ransom. Ask him for eight million.”

Kevin and Romain both goggle.

“_Hold da kæft_, mate,” Kevin splutters. “That’s a lot of money. Why? You think Lewis will pay up?”

“Of course he will,” Charles scoffs. “With Valtteri gone, he’ll have to blend his own green juice and pick up his own dry cleaning. He’ll cave. Three days, tops.”

“Fuck. Uh, let me consult with my colleague here,” Kevin says, pulling Romain down for a private conversation Charles can still hear perfectly well. “We have to. Half eight mil is more than double our yearly operating budget. We could finally buy functioning guns.”

“And a stand mixer for the office kitchen,” Romain says, with a dreamy smile on his face.

“What the fuck, no, we’re not getting a stand mixer,” Kevin hisses, then turns back to Charles. “Fine. We’re agreed. But why so much money?”

“Well, obviously, I need that much,” Charles says, irritated. 

“But _ why? _” Grosjean persists, like the worst two-man patter routine ever written. Abbott and Costello, they are not.

“Yeah, why? You’re one of the top men in the Ferrari conglomerate. How are you that deep in the hole?”

Charles groans. There’s a probing glint in their eyes that tells Charles they won’t let him leave until they annoy the truth out of him. He drops his face into his hands and finally admits the truth and the severity of the situation — not just to the Haas men, but to himself.

“Paying off the FIA gets expensive, okay?” he wails. “That regulatory agency is a nightmare. God. They’re called the maFIA for a reason. First, it’s a million to keep the auditors off our backs, but the next time, it’s five million, then ten million … it’s extortion, is what it is. Racketeering.”

Kevin slams a palm on the table in a fit of pique, rattling the plates and glasses. 

“_That’s _ how you’ve been doing it?” he yells. People turn and stare. Grosjean mutters something that sounds like, _ I’ve been telling you, Kev_.

“It’s a whole line item in our operating budget,” Charles says. “It’s just … been a challenging fiscal year, okay? There’ve been problems.”

“Every one of which _ you’ve _caused, personally, for yourself. I’ve read the news.”

“I’ve had to dip into my personal savings,” Charles says, ignoring Kevin.

“We’ve been buying food with the change from Guenther’s swear jar,” Romain laments. “We eat Kraft cheese on Wonder Bread. _ Kraft cheese. Wonder Bread._”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Kevin says. “I don’t mind it.”

“Yes, I know, because you have the underdeveloped palate of a _ child _ — ”

“We’re not getting into this again,” Kevin says, mercifully, before Charles is driven to stab a fork into his own eye to get himself out of this. Kevin pushes his chair away from the table, scraping it obnoxiously on the tile. “Come on. Let’s go kidnap that Finnish bastard.”

\--

“Valtteri,” Romain says. Valtteri, toiling in the parking lot outside of _ Syndikat _ HQ, looks up in acknowledgement. “Did you hear? This new coffeeshop just opened downtown, they do an _ incroyable _pour-over.”

“Bullshit,” he says, waving his hand dismissively, and returns to detailing the wing mirror of Lewis’ car. “French press is the only way to go.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought too,” Romain says, putting a hand to his heart, a Gallic patriot through and through. “But that was until I went to this place. You _ have _to come with me and try it, mate.”

\--

“Well, that was easy,” Kevin remarks, looking at the man bound and gagged in the trunk of the car. He slams the trunk shut and tosses Romain the keys. Romain snatches them, jangling, out of midair. “Let’s blow this shithole.”

\--

“_Merde_,” Romain says, pulling off to the side of the road and slowing to a halt. The black-and-white behind them draws closer, sirens blaring, until it too comes to a stop, and stops with it the oh-so-carefully constructed plan to _ blow this shithole_. 

A slack-jawed cop, looking like he’d swaggered straight out of Central Casting and into his cruiser, comes alongside and raps on the window.

“License and registration,” he says. 

“Sure thing, Officer … Kvyat,” Romain says, squinting at the guy’s name tag. He’d heard somewhere that using someone’s real name in conflict situations inclined them to be more sympathetic to you. He digs around in the glovebox, produces the paperwork, and hands it over with a smile. The cop scans it over and frowns.

“You’re aware you’re driving with expired plates,” Officer Kvyat says.

“We’re not from around here. We rented this car,” Romain says, shrugging. 

“Still, I’m going to have to — ”

There’s a loud _ thump _ from the rear of the car that jolts the vehicle a little on its axles. Kevin looks up sharply, wide-eyed. 

“What is that?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Romain says, smiling easily. “This car, it is a piece of shit, the muffler keeps — ”

There’s another _ thunk_, and then harder to explain away, a faint litany of muffled Finnish swearing.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to open the trunk.”

“Where’s your warrant?” Kevin challenges.

“I don’t need a warrant for this,” the cop sighs. “There’s this thing, it’s called probable cau — ”

\--

“Call came in overnight. Ten triple-nine, officer down. Kvyat, from the next town over. Mile marker thirty off the Hockenheim Motorway, which makes it our jurisdiction,” Sergeant Kimi Räikkönen says, thus starting and ending the morning briefing. Short, sweet, and to the point. God, he’s hungover. “Questions?”

The rookie detective sitting front and center in the briefing room, having dutifully transcribed every word spoken down in his notebook, shoots his hand up. Kimi stifles a groan. To stall, he looks to the left, where Detective Sergio Perez is napping on his case files, drooling a little, then to the right, where Detective Antonio Giovinazzi is twirling a lock of his hair around and around his finger, staring dully into the middle distance. No dice.

“Yes, Detective Stroll?”

“Sergeant Räikkönen,” Detective Lance Stroll starts, with the tone of a high school debate captain about to lay out a devastating opening statement. “I know I’m just a rookie, and uh, I know I haven’t worked a case yet, but I was thinking … ”

“Hey boss, isn’t Kvyat the guy that T-boned you during that high-speed pursuit a few months ago?” Antonio interrupts, having rejoined this plane of reality.

Why so he is, Kimi realizes. _ Fuck _ that guy.

“Stroll, the case is yours,” he says. 

“Really?” The kid’s thousand-watt smile is almost enough to exacerbate his alcohol-induced headache, even through his sunglasses.

“Did I fucking mumble?” he mumbles, slouching out of the room, beelining for the bottle of rotgut vodka tucked away in his desk. Hair of the dog, that’s what he needs.

“You got it, Sarge!” Stroll says, to his retreating back.

\--

His first case. _ Wow _ , his first case! And they said he would never make it, that he was only here because his dad had paid his way through the academy — which was true, but it didn’t mean he was good for nothing. He’d done his time as a patrolman, had worked hard to make detective. And here now was his chance to prove he deserved to be here, _ and _ solve a heinous crime in the process!

“Lando, Carlos,” Lance announces, walking into the tech analysts’ office. The two are huddled together over a computer, giggling at something on the screen. Lance had learned the hard way not to just sneak up on them, lest you get an eyeful of the _ really _ perverse parts of the Internet. People would really just post pictures of their — their _ genitalia _ — for a prank, even! Monsters.

“What’s up, bacon boy?” Carlos says. Lando and Carlos high-five, and Lance beams. He takes it as a compliment, that he’s on nickname terms with his coworkers.

“Can you please pull traffic cam footage at mile marker thirty off the, uh, Hockenheim Motorway from between the hours of midnight to six am?”

“Oh yah, you betcha,” Lando says, affecting a strange accent that sounds neither here nor there and, for some reason, high-fives Carlos again.

\--

“We ran the plates from the traffic camera footage, and the VIN number traces back to a company car from your organization,” Lance patiently explains, once again. This time, it seems to get through. Mattia Binotto loses the warily baffled expression on his face and looks at him with grave concern.

“Well, that’s a very serious accusation,” he says, nodding and frowning. Lance nods along as well. He’s glad that the man is at least affording this crime the gravitas it deserves. And poor Charles Leclerc, sitting beside him, looks like he’s holding back tears, though he keeps a brave, stiff smile on his face despite it all. He keeps coughing loudly into his hand to stifle helpless sobbing noises, overcome, no doubt, by the utter misery at this turn of events. Charles has a cry awfully reminiscent of a hyena’s bark of laughter, but that certainly can’t be helped — Lance can sympathize, as he himself has been told he has a few unfortunate, _ uhhhhhh _, vocal tics.

“I can assure you, Detective, that no vehicles have entered or left our garage since closing time last night,” Mattia says. “But if you would like, Charles here can personally escort you on a tour of the premises, so you can check it out for yourself.”

“Even better,” Charles says, shooting Mattia an unreadable look. “I can pull in every member of the night staff and ask them to corroborate their stories. Of course, they’re all at home sleeping right now, but they can be called here within the half-hour … ”

“Oh, no need to bother them,” Lance says. He pats his notebook. “Thank you, gentlemen. I have what I need.” And it was true — all the others he’d interviewed had been less than forthcoming. For whatever reason, he’d gotten his hair ruffled more than once. This one, he decides, he’ll mark down as a success in his daily report.

“Of course. Anything we can do to help. We just want to do what’s best,” Charles says, and coughs one more time.

\--

“ — and at the time he told me, _ it’s fine, we can still be friends _ , but now he won’t even answer my calls,” Daniel Ricciardo laments, morosely gulping down the rest of his beer and motioning the bartender for another two pints with a more-than-tipsy motion. “He’s still angry I left, I think. It’s just, I had to do what was best for _ me _, you know?”

“I get it,” Lance says. “I’m sorry.” It’s one of those little serendipities, that of all the dive bars in all the world, he’d run into an old acquaintance here — an old acquaintance who’s spent half an hour and four drinks lamenting his failed relationship. Not that Lance is ever unwilling to lend a sympathetic ear to someone in need of it, but the whole conversation feels uncomfortably voyeuristic, and it’s clearly bumming Daniel out, so he tries gently to steer the conversation into calmer seas. “So what, uh, what brings you into town?”

“Been here for weeks now. The FIA called the Bureau in to investigate Renault for tax evasion,” Daniel says. “And when the Bureau says jump, I ask how high.”

“Oh, jeez,” Lance says, eyes widening, even as a thousand questions pop into his brain. The action in this town usually limited itself to HOA disputes and drunk and disorderlies. A murder was a big deal. But corporate tax evasion, that was some big-city, Wall Street stuff. “Are they — did they — ”

“Listen, kid, you know I’m not supposed to talk casework, but law-enforcement professional to law-enforcement professional,” Daniel says, leaning in closely, and Lance practically glows with the pride of having been recognized as one of that fraternal order, “no.”

“Oh,” Lance says, admonishing himself for feeling a little let down. “You know, I still remember the seminar you taught at the academy. _ Every day, you have to send it_. It changed my life. Really.”

“You’re a sweet kid. You remind me of him,” Daniel says, and leans in close, _ way _ too close — 

\--

Charles is slightly off. It takes Lewis only two days to capitulate.

“I miss Valtteri. I want him back,” Lewis sniffles, his voice tinny through the phone speakers. 

“The kidnappers have been in touch with me,” Charles says. Pauses for the drama, to let the anticipation build. “They’re asking eight million.”

“Done,” Lewis says, without hesitation. “I can have the money ready by tomorrow. Cash? Check? Wire transfer?”

“Cash — wow, you … you actually miss him, huh?” This was a circumstance he hadn’t really foreseen, and Charles kicks himself for not upping the asking price. 

“Of course I miss him, he’s my _best __friend_, man,” Lewis caterwauls. “He holds my bags while we’re out shopping, and he walks my dogs when I ask him to, and he buys me coffee when I ask him to, and he takes the _ best _Instagram photos, he knows all my angles — ”

“Uh-huh, yeah, so, eight million by tomorrow,” Charles interrupts, and gives him the address for the handoff. 

\--

_ FBI AGENT IMPLICATED FOR TAKING BRIBES ON TAX EVASION INVESTIGATION. _

Lance nearly chokes on his coffee when he sees the morning headline. But there it is, Daniel’s mugshot on the front page, looking appropriately and miserably hungover considering how drunk he’d been the night previous when Lance had kindly declined his advances, walked him back to his motel, and put him to bed.

_ Prosecutors allege that Agent Ricciardo had taken bribes in exchange for covering up the illegal activities at Renault, and that he had known about the operation the entire time. _

_ “It’s not tax evasion,” a Renault spokesperson told the media. “It’s just innovative accounting. We’ve been doing it for years, and nobody’s said anything before.” _

Lance flips the newspaper shut and frowns, deeply troubled. Daniel's such an upstanding man, and a talented special agent. Lance could never imagined he would be the type to do something like this. And then _ lie _about it? After he'd sworn to serve and uphold such an incorruptible office?

It's deeply disappointing news, and it upsets him — but thinking back on it, to the conversation they'd had, he realized he'd missed something crucial. _ I had to do what was best for me. _Given the context, Lance had assumed Daniel had been talking about his relationship. But now that this has come to light — if only he'd read between the lines a little —

It pings in his mind, suddenly, what Charles Leclerc had said at the end of his interview. _ We just want to do what’s best _ . Best for _ who_, Lance ponders, and then has his very first-ever _hunch_, a moment of inspired clarity, like the dawning of the sun over the frozen lakes and soaring mountain peaks of Canada.

\--

“What do you mean, _ you let him go? _” Kevin howls.

“I felt bad for him, mate,” Romain says defensively, as if that’s any explanation. 

“You _ felt bad for him? _ You fucking frog. You cheese-eating surrender monkey, he was our _ hostage! _ That’s our _ money _ you just let walk out the door!”

“He was a nice guy, Kevin. Not like _ you_. He never yelled at me, or hit me, and he was polite, and he cleaned up after himself, and he asked me about my day, and he has a _ family _ , you know. We became friends — and he liked my cooking! He has a true appreciation for _ haute cuisine_. He could tell the difference between _ braciole _ and _ bresaola _— he didn’t deserve to be put in this situation — ”

“Your _ cooking _ is not worth four million dollars,” Kevin yells, then snaps his mouth shut. “Shit, Romain, I’m sorry. I take that back — _ I take that back! _ — ” 

\--

The phone rings and rings and rings, and then disconnects the call. Leaning against the side of his sports car at the top of a deserted parking structure, Charles is getting antsy. The Haas men were supposed to be here already, Valtteri in tow. But they’re late, and they’re not picking up his calls, and any second now, Lewis is set to show up for the drop —

Lewis zooms up on a motorized scooter, squealing rubber with the speed of his arrival. _ Shit _. Charles gears up to make his excuses, but before the scooter is even stopped, Lewis leaps off of it and uses the momentum to fling himself at Charles, ensnaring him in a tight hug.

“_Thank you _for getting him home, Charles,” Lewis says breathlessly, detaching himself well after the hug has gotten uncomfortable. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Uh … what?”

“I don’t know _ what _ you told the kidnappers, but I came home from work today and Valtteri was there in the kitchen, making my dinner as he always does, like he never left! He’s completely fine, safe and sound. Oh, _ thank you, _Charles, I feel so #blessed.”

“What — what the hell is going on?” Charles asks.

“What’s going on is, you’re under arrest for ordering the abduction of Valtteri Bottas,” a voice says behind from his shoulder. Charles whirls around to see a completely forgettable-looking young man dressed in an ill-fitting suit and tie walking toward him. He could be a used car salesman, if not for the detective badge hanging around his neck and the gun he’s levelling at Charles. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will — ”

“What the _ fuck _,” Charles says.

“Oh! Did I say it wrong? Sorry,” the detective says, flips open his notepad, and squints at it. “Wait, no, I was right. Okay, uh, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law … ”

\--

He hears it before he sees it — the grinding drone of heavy machinery, cutting through the silence by the lakeside cabin. Not a promising sound, Lance thinks, as he slowly creeps through the snow, around the side of the cabin, and through a thicket of bushes.

Through a parting in the foliage, Lance finds the source of the noise: Romain Grosjean feeding a woodchipper, the snow in front of him stark red, splattered with — 

Oh. Oh, _ God _. 

Lance swallows the bile that rises in his mouth and draws his gun. 

“Police, hands up!” he yells. Grosjean, not hearing him over the sound of the machine, continues in his grisly task, grabbing a branch to pack down the contents in the hopper — is that a _ leg? Christ. _ He takes a deep breath.

“POLICE, HANDS UP,” he bellows, stepping into the clearing. Grosjean perks up and looks around confusedly for a second before spotting him. Lance points at the badge on his chest, then indicates his gun, just to make sure the man understands the situation he’s in. It _is _quite noisy, after all. 

“HE INSULTED MY COOKING,” Grosjean shouts, pointing at the woodchipper. 

“OH. SORRY TO HEAR THAT,” Lance replies, and pulls the trigger as Grosjean turns to flee.

\--

“It’s nice of you to check up on me,” Officer Pierre Gasly says, his hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. They’re strolling through the park together, braving the cold on Gasly’s lunch break.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Losing your partner is never easy,” Lance says.

“I’m okay. It happens a lot at our precinct, for some reason,” Pierre shrugs. “But it’s still good of you. Congratulations on solving your first case.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” Lance says. He’s not sure if congratulations are in order, given how things had all shaken out. He'd learned some things he wished he hadn't. Seen some things he'd never unsee. But solved the case, he certainly did — even Kimi had decreed it _not bad_, which was a resounding compliment, all told.

"Anyway, you proved a lot of people wrong," Pierre says, smiling wryly, perhaps sensing his hesitation. "I know what that feels like. So. Congratulations."

Lance smiles kindly in reciprocation. He appreciates that, more than Pierre might know. Because he knows they talk about him behind his back, that they call him naïve and idealistic, that they think he’s a spoiled rich kid with his head in the clouds, out of touch with reality.

But no, he understands what the world is like, that people can so easily hide their true selves and so easily lie, the lengths to which they will go to sate their own greed, to make sure they come out on top. He just chooses not to grow cynical and suspicious and disappointed in life in spite of it. He just chooses to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, innocent until proven guilty — to give them a chance as life has given him all these wonderful, fortunate chances, one after another, for all these years.

And hey, he thinks, smiling in the cold sun of the beautiful midwinter day as he walks shoulder-to-shoulder with Pierre back to the warmth of the precinct, what’s so bad about that?

**Author's Note:**

> see, this is what happens when y’all keep encouraging me — the AUs keep coming and they keep getting dumber. also, if you haven’t seen fargo, do! it’s far better than this drivel.
> 
> the usual: this is entirely a work of fiction, please do not put this into the real world or in front of the real people, and please don’t link this out onto other platforms without asking first. thanks so much for putting up with me, y’all are great, and i hope someone, somewhere enjoyed this!


End file.
